Mom to Baby Boy Turner
Born and died October 8, 2011
My son is dead. This is something I say to myself at least once every day. Sometimes I want to scream it at the smiling faces that expect me to smile back. It’s just too hard to smile because I miss him so much. Although he came and went so quickly, the imprint he left is amazing. I love him. It’s almost been a year since I lost him and I’m already noticing the cycle restarting. Memorial Day Weekend: he was conceived. Father’s Day: a positive pregnancy test. October 8th, his birth/death day, is right around the corner.
I remember that day so vividly. A week before, I went in to the doctor’s office for what I thought was a yeast infection. At first the doctor agreed, but after she looked closer, she realized the white that she saw wasn’t yeast…it was my amniotic sac slipping through my cervix. The look on her face when she rose from between my parted legs was the first time my heart broke during that week-long ordeal, but it certainly wasn’t the last. Next came the ultrasound to confirm. And my little man looked so happy, so active. He danced around in the tight space as though he didn’t even notice the small opening next to him. They called it an incompetent cervix, but all I remember is how incompetent I felt. All I had to do was carry him and keep him safe, and I failed. But I tried. They stuck me on my head for a week in the hospital and kept me on total bedrest to see if the sac would return to its rightful place and then they could stitch up my cervix. I waited. I begged him to hold on. And I think he did the best he could, but neither of our bests was enough. I was admitted on Monday. My water broke Friday morning. And my son’s lifeless body fell on to the delivery bed Saturday morning at 3:13 am. Luckily, my contractions got so strong that I’d knocked off the monitors hugging my swollen belly. Thankfully, I’ll never know when his heart stopped. The last time I looked at the screen, his heartbeats were lively squiggles dancing – dancing, just like he loved to do inside of me. My last memory of my son being alive was happy and so full of life. I like to remember him that way. Not the cold, tiny body I held hours after he was delivered and an emergency surgery had finally gotten my bleeding under control. I want to remember the good he brought me and not all the pain that’s been crippled me since he left.
You can contact Nisey at firstname.lastname@example.org.